"Eating dogs's wrong!" Tanya shouted at me.

I smirked, holding the puppy over the hot fat.

"If it were chicken you wouldn't complain," Gary said. "Ev'ryone loves chicken."

"Come on, Gary, not dogs!" she said.

The animal yelped and squirmed. "I dunno much," I told her, "but my brother, an' he's Oxford edyew-cated, said they tasted alright."

"Jus' coz he lives in Oxford, dun't make 'im Oxford edyew-cated," Tanya replied.

"So you gonna dunk 'im or what?" I asked Gary.

"It's only an animal," said Gary. "There's plenty of 'em around. I mean, like, jus' go down the street you'll find one. It's a dog. A simple stupid dog."

"Well," she stormed, "that dog isn't yours. Leave 'im alone or I'll smack you stupid."

I'd had enough, so threw the furry thing on the floor. It fell awkward, like, and I think maybe it broke a leg or foot.

"Well we can't leave it like that," Gary said.

"You're sick — the both of you," said Tanya.

Gary and I looked at each other. I said, "Dun't make me any less hungrier."

She probably thought it was a cruel thing to say, but it's either eatin or smoking, and I ain't giving up the smokes. The fact is, I wanted to dunk the dog's head in the fat. See what happened. What sound it made. How it looked. What it smelled like. It was interesting. Tanya wanted to do it as well. All I can smell now is her bullshit excuses. I was going to bring up a smart comment, but she caught me with one of those gnarly wenchy snarls that pissed off women could give, so I backed off.

"What then? If we can't use the dog what do we use? The fat's hot and I'm bored."

"You're a psycho, Brian," she replied.

Gary said, "What about a cat? I hate cats."

"Or mice," I added. "We could dunk 'em whole by the tail like one of them chocolate apples we had last year."

Tanya threw up her arms in disgust and said, "Whatever, you guys. Just leave me out of it."

She collected the dog. It yelped and tried to bite her as she scooped it up, then she walked away and thumped the door shut behind her.

"She's spoilt," Gary said.

"I know, but has the cutest little butt."

"Yeah," he sighed.

I stood beside Gary. He was half my size, but I know I'm big for sixteen, and useful as a forward in the school rugby team.

It's not that clear why it happened: it just did — as the rain falls from the sky or the sun that rises — I just did it because it was a natural thing to do.

Ever smell human flesh being cooked in hot smoky fat? Smells like a restaurant. Gary's head bubbled and frothed like my old headmaster reading Shakespeare. I didn't feel sorry for Gary. I didn't feel guilt or compassion or anything for that matter. Just a sense of understanding; that I knew how it looked, what sound it made, what it smelled like. Pure luck helped me keep his head in the pan. As he thrashed around, the fat spat on my hand and burnt me as well. I didn't notice any pain. I was too busy watching him die. I thought he'd never give up writhing, so when he went limp, I was very relieved.

My hand wasn't too badly damaged. Gary, on the other hand (in the other hand) was different. Ever had a corn dog with too much ketchup? Well, that was Gary's face. His skin had melted into a waxy liquid. It looked shiny and crispy at the same time, like a used human candle.

The puppy had gone, yeah, I appreciate that, but my appetite hadn't. I still had the choice whether I buy something to eat or some smokes. So, I started to eat Gary.
He tasted like chicken.